September 2006

September 25, 2006

It's a busy week again here at Casa MetroDad. Work is busy. My MIL is in town. And Lord knows my DVR is bursting at the seams. Therefore, posting may be a little light. However, as usual, I've got some random things on my mind so I thought I'd spew them out all at once. Here goes...

METHINKS THOU ART QUITE STRANGE! I BID YOU ANON!

I had a salesman in my office on Friday who was trying to get my business. He was a really nice guy so we started shooting the shit about non-work related topics. I was talking about the Peanut. He was telling me about his kids. We talked a little about sports. When I asked him what he was doing over the weekend, he told me he was going to a Renaissance Faire. I thought this was pretty funny and assumed he was going for the campiness factor. You know, spend a few hours outdoors, drink a few beers, watch a joust. Then, he proceeds to tell me about how he and his whole family dress up in costume and speak in medieval tongue EVERY weekend. I thought he was kidding until he showed me the photos. I don't know whether he looked more like a gay Musketeer or the illegitimate love child of Friar Tuck and Falstaff.

Seriously? I think I'd rather do business with a Trekkie.

THE WRATH OF GRAPES

I let my daughter eat off the floor, hang off the bars at the jungle gym, run wildly through the streets of NYC, jump headfirst off the couch, and play with scissors. So can someone please explain to me why I completely freak out when she gets within 10 feet of an unpeeled grape?

WHEN ELMO AND OPPORTUNITY KNOCK

I wasn't a parent when previous fads such as Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, or Power Rangers became the must-have gift of the holiday season. The whole concept of a "must-have" gift is so foreign to me. Owing to my parents' immigrant status, the holidays weren't a big deal in our home. Usually, on Christmas, I'd either get a $20 bill or a new book. Yes, it was slightly traumatic at the time. However, watching people go nuts to buy stuff during the holidays always amazed us! Who would sleep in the parking lot of Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving so they could get their hands on a TOY? White people are so funny sometimes, no?

Anyway, by now, most of you have heard about the hysteria surrounding the release of TMX Elmo. The latest version of the Tickle-Me Elmo doll is retailing for about $39.99. However, due to limited supply, sellers on E-Bay are already listing the toy for $150. Holy crap! If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. BossLady and I just bought 12 TMX Elmos. If we sell them for $150 each, we'll make a profit of $1,320. That should be just enough money for us to check into the Ritz-Carlton, order in room service, and tickle each other extremely for a few days! God bless that little furry red bastard!

MY NAME IS EARL...OF SANDWICH

My mother-in-law is visiting us this week so I've been sleeping on the couch in the living room. I love my MIL to death so I don't really mind. Besides, I tend to stay up late so it works out just fine. The weird thing is that when I sleep on the couch, I can see into my neighbors' apartments across the street. The other night, as I was reading, I noticed someone making a sandwich at 2:00 am. Definitely my kind of guy. I'm a big fan of the late-night hoagie and I have enormous respect for my fellow stoner chefs. But then, I started thinking about what kind of sandwich the guy was making. What if it was brie and green apple on a baguette? What if it was black trumpet mushrooms with white truffle fondue on a ciabatta roll? Or worse, what if he was making a sandwich with goat cheese? Ewww! Then, of course, my opinion of the neighbor would be COMPLETELY different.

I was literally so preoccupied with all this that I was just about to rummage through the closet to find our binoculars when I decided I should probably just go to bed...but not until after making a sandwich. Peanut butter & jelly, thank you very much.

HOME WASN'T BUILT IN A DAY

I am not a handy man. I am very useful in many other ways. If you want to know where to get the best Moroccan food in NYC, need someone to give a speech at a wedding, or are curious about what kind of wine goes best with pizza, I am definitely your man. However, when it comes to household chores, I am generally useless. Last week, I actually paid someone to come over and change the lightbulbs in our den because the last time I tried to do this, I ended up ripping the fixtures out of the ceiling.

Now, BossLady and I are discussing redoing our kitchen. During the total gut renovation of our apartment a few years ago, we ran out of money before we got to the kitchen. Yet, somehow, I have it in my head that I can singlehandledly do it by myself with some help from my friends at Ikea. Thankfully, my lovely wife reminded me not only about the lightbulb incident but also about the time where I was convinced I could repaint our old apartment by myself and we ended up sleeping on the floor for two months.

So we've decided that we're just going to save some money and have someone professionally renovate our kitchen. At our current rate of savings, we think that should be somewhere around 2026. However, if anyone out there would like to swap manual labor for some witty repartee, please e-mail me immediately.

CURRENTLY ENJOYING MUCH MORE THAN I'D LIKE TO ADMIT

1. The latest incarnation of "Survivor: Cook Islands" where the teams are divided by ethnicity. I like to call the show "Survivor: KKKooK Isands" but somehow I can't stop watching it. As famed rock thespian Tommy Lee might say, the entire show just feels like it's "sauteed in wrong sauce." How can something so wrong feel so right?

2. Although the Peanut is just shy of her 2nd birthday, we've recently introduced the concept of potty training by buying her a book titled "Too Big For Diapers," (starring Ernie of the ambiguosly gay duo Bert & Ernie.) Since the Peanut adores Ernie, she's become obsessed with the book. Now, she likes to run up to me and whisper in my ear, "poo poo in the potty." She knows it cracks me up so every time she says it, the two of us laugh hilariously. At this rate, she should be potty trained by the time she enters junior high.

3. Redi-Whip. Since I'm still doing Atkins and have eschewed carbs, I no longer indulge in Oreos. But did you know that Redi-Whip has no carbs? More than once, I have found myself standing by the refrigerator shooting whipped cream directly into my mouth. There are very few things in life that will make you feel like a 5-year old again. This is one of them.

4. Is anyone else besides me a little TOO excited about the fact that dictionary.com has a new graphic user interface? Seriously, I feel like I've been sauteed in awesome sauce! When I saw the new look, I practically squealed with delight. By the way, speaking of dictionaries, I'm currently obsessed with my new favorite word, "ersatz." I've been trying to use it in conversation lately but have been totally spazzing out so I thought I'd put it here on the internet.

September 20, 2006

For the past month, I've been dealing with an enormous amount of
stress at work. I've had a constant migraine. My hair feels like it's
falling out in bunches. And even the knots in my shoulders have
knots! If I were to visit a physician, he'd probably tell me that these
knots were Gordian in nature (actually, that diagnosis would probably be better left to a Macedonian philosopher, wouldn't it? Hmm, I wonder whether my health insurance covers co-payments to Macedonian philosophers. Doubtful. Fuckers won't even cover the cost of my therapy!)

To make a long story short, instead of giving myself a big bonus at the end of this
year and taking a long vacation on a nice beach in Tahiti, I'll most
likely be giving my beloved employees bonuses out of my own pocket and, instead of Tahiti, BossLady, Peanut and I will
probably be spending the Christmas holidays at the Vince Lombardi service station on
the N.J. Turnpike.

If any of you are travelling on I-95 over the
holidays, please stop by and say hi!

Once, when BossLady and I were driving cross-country, we actually spent a
night at the Vince Lombardi rest stop sleeping in a cargo van. Based on that singular experience,
I'm thinking that there are probably worse places to spend the
holidays (like my in-laws' house in Texas. Don't get me wrong. I love them IMMENSELY but they have no cable TV, no internet access, and no alcohol. It's like vacationing with the Amish.) On the other hand, Mr. Lombardi's rest stop has ALL of those things. Plus a Taco Bell, a Bob's
Big Boy, and a Roy Rogers! Shazaam! A perfect Trifecta!

This reminds me. A friend of mine owns several Arby's in Chicago. Since he actually inherited all of them
and looks very young for his age, we used to call him Abe Frohman, the
sausage king of Chicago (if you're under the age of 30, you're
probably not going to get that joke.) Anyway, "Abe" has always told us
that we should avoid Arby's whenever possible. Apparently, the meat is
not always 100% beef and they paint the grill marks on the ribs so it
looks like they were actually cooked on a bbq. I won't even discuss what's in the horsey sauce! Anyway, "Abe" also told
us that, as bad as Arby's may be, studies have shown that the Roy Roger's Fixins Bar is a
disgusting repository of germs and bacteria, some of which have
probably yet to be discovered. Awesome!

What the fuck was I talking about again? Oh yes...stress.

Life used to be so much easier, didn't it? Remember those halcyon
days of yore? When the toughest decision of your day was
what to put on your pizza? God damn, I miss those times.

Sometimes, I feel like quitting my job, selling our apartment in Manhattan,
moving to Jamaica and buying a little tropical shack on the beach. I
could be a coconut farmer. BossLady could sell trinkets to tourists.
And Peanut would be the cutest little Korean Rastafarian on the
planet. Wouldn't that be lovely?

But then I remember that I love central air conditioning, foie gras, wireless
internet service, Frette sheets, sushi, cashmere sweaters, and German
cars. Also, I'd look absolutely ridiculous with dred locks. Fuck! Back to the salt mines!

Whenever I get this stressed out, I like to employ one of my
favorite relaxation activities. You know, the one called GIANT GLASS OF SCOTCH! (God bless you, Dr. Johnnie Walker! You're not only the best therapist I've ever had but you've also done more for me than Prozac ever could!)

Now, I'm man enough to admit that I'm pretty miserable to be around right now and am really not suitable for adult company. This morning, the Boss Lady innocently asked me to throw away some of the twenty New Yorker magazines that have been by the side of my bed for a month and I almost bit her head off. I think my exact words were, "GOOD LORD! STOP NAGGING ME, WOMAN, AND LEAVE ME ALONE! I HATE MY LIFE!"

If only I were kidding...

I witnessed first-hand how my father's daily stress affected my relationship with him so I've always sworn that I would never allow that to happen with me and the Peanut. This is something that's very important to me. At the end of the day, I can always apologize to the BossLady for being a pain in the ass. But young toddlers don't really understand it when Daddy's getting his ass kicked at work and is just not himself.

So tonight, I decided to have a special Father/Daughter date night. When I picked The Peanut up from daycare, she wrapped her little arms around my neck and gave me a giant bear hug. The two of us held hands and took a long walk around the neighborhood. Then, we ended up at our favorite sushi restaurant. It's a local joint where everyone knows us well and the whole staff always comes over to play with the Peanut. We both love this place. Peanut loves their miso soup and Agedashi tofu. I love their enormous sake collection and the fact that they fly their fish in from Japan on a daily basis.

The two of us had a great time. There's nothing like spending quality time with your child to make you forget all your problems. A few hours talking nonsense with the Peanut and having sword fights with our chopsticks was the best therapy in the world. How stressed out can you be when your daughter is feeding you soup? If you don't have kids, there's no way in a million years that I can even begin to explain how life-affirming the whole experience was.

But if a picture says a thousand words...

Updated 9/22/06: You know how lightning never strikes the same place twice? Well, I shouldn't have pushed my luck, my friends. Last night, we took the Peanut out for dinner. Whereas the night before, she was a dinner companion nonpareil, yesterday she was the model of vexation. I'm talking total nuclear meltdown. The lie-on-your-stomach-and-flail-your-arms-screaming type of meltdown. You know what I'm talking about, right? Fun times. Anyway, thank you all for your words of encouragement. As always, I'm humbled by your kindness.

September 19, 2006

When I was growing up, I'm pretty sure that none of the parents I knew grappled with the "good cop, bad cop" dilemmas of modern-day parenting.

In my neighborhood, everyone's dad was the bad cop. Moms, on the other hand, were always a pushover. The only time moms were scary was when they threatened to rat you out and tell your dad when you did something wrong. For a little kid, the scariest words in the English language have got to be, "Go to your room and wait until your father gets home! You're going to be in big trouble then, Mister!"

When you're only 6 years old and someone is calling you "Mister," it's a pretty safe bet that you're very close to getting your ass spanked.

Sitting alone in my room like a death row inmate waiting for my father to come home, I'd always contemplate how I could make a break for it. Should I run away? How would I survive? How far could I make it with only a Mighty Mac jacket, two Kit-Kat bars, and $1.27 in pennies? Dammit, I needed a reference guide. Where the hell was my copy of "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" when I needed it?

By the way, is there any greater children's book than "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler"? To this day, whenever I'm near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I think back wistfully of Claudia and Jamie hiding in the restroom, bathing in the fountain, and sleeping on antique beds. In my opinion, this is the greatest children's literature book of all-time (ranking just slightly ahead of "Jonathan Livingston Seagull," "To Kill a Mockingbird," "James & the Giant Peach," and the entire Encyclopedia Brown series.)

What the hell was I talking about again? Oh yeah...good cop/bad cop.

As most of you know, the Peanut is in the throes of her terrible twos. Don't get me wrong. She's still a wonderfully sweet child who can light up a room with her laughter. However, there are other moments when she will throw tantrums like a young John McEnroe and I start wondering if it's not too late to stick her in a box marked "Return to Sender."

The worst aspect of dealing with the Peanut when she throws a tantrum, refuses to get in her stroller or simply must have a cookie by any means necessary? Well, someone's got to be the Bad Cop.

Now, we often hear about the many trials and tribulations of the modern-day parent. It's become apparent that no serious discussion of parenting today is complete unless we talk about the work/life balance, the Mommie Wars, the emergence of SAHDs, or the changing gender roles among today's parents.

Hell, I think it's great that these discussions are taking place. We're so darn enlightened, aren't we?

But to tell you the truth? You want to know my REAL problem right now?

I don't want to be Bad Cop!

It's not that I don't want to be a disciplinarian when it comes to the Peanut. I'm a firm believer in discipline and there's no way in hell that I'm going to raise a spoiled child. It's just that I'd much rather be "Mr. Fun Guy." I hate being the Bad Cop.

But I realize that it's not fair to my wife for her to be the bad cop so I'm perfectly willing to share the responsibilities also. The funny thing is that she doesn't like the job either. As usual, we've discussed this openly with one another and we both feel it's imperative that we put up a united front. Therefore, any time the Peanut starts acting up, we'll often find ourselves in an amusing game of "Bad Cop, Bad Cop." Sometimes, it's pure comedy. It's like the toddler version of "Serpico." Everyone's a bad cop.

I don't know. Sometimes, I think instead of playing Good Cop or Bad Cop, we should just play Tough Cop. Maybe I'll start a series of parenting books based on the philosophical tenets of Dirty Harry. Can you imagine? Every time Peanut starts acting up, I'll squint my eyes, reach for my water pistol, and say, "Go ahead, punk. Make my day!"

It could work, right? Anyway, how do you folks handle the division of discplinary duties?

September 14, 2006

During a week in which I've mourned the loss of a close friend, gotten my ass kicked at work, and have been afflicted with every airborne virus at the Peanut's daycare center...THIS is just about the only thing that has brought a smile to my face.

September 11, 2006

It's hard to believe that it's been five years since you passed away. In many ways, it feels like several lifetimes ago. In other ways, the shadows of that horrible day are burned in my memory so strongly that I remember everything like it was just yesterday.

I remember in those dark days after 9/11 when I would call your voice mail just to hear your voice. For months, I would call and leave you messages. Tears would be rolling down my face as I spoke into an empty receiver telling you how much I missed you. Eventually, they disconnected the voice mail, Andy, but don't worry. I'll never forget your voice or the sound of your laugh. In many ways, they're like the soundtrack of my youth.

There's so much to tell you, my friend, that I don't even know where to begin. The Peanut is almost two now. Can you believe that, Andy? It's amazing to watch her grow older. She's a funny little kid with a ridiculously infectious laugh. Her goofiness and love of life remind me a lot of you. The two of you would have had so much fun together and I know "Uncle Andy" would have been one of her favorite people.

Although the "boys" don't see each other as often as we should, we all remain very close. Roy is still down in Miami with his family. I spoke to him last week and couldn't help but smile a little about the grief you used to give him about being a low-talker. Russell has his hands full with his little girl but he still lives like a rock-star banker. You'd love seeing The Doctor these days. He's traded in the leather pants for a plastic bib and a sippy cup. He's a proud papa of a little boy and, if God has any sense of humor, the kid is going to grow up and become a total jock. Of course, I see Kyle a lot. He's still happily single and having the time of his life. And are you ready for this? Shar got married this past year and Sherri is pregnant! Finally! The wedding was out in Arizona and was the perfect time for a reunion of "la famiglia." Needless to say, I spent a lot of the weekend getting drunk with your folks.

Like every special occasion we all celebrate together, Andy, you were deeply missed. You were there in spirit but I would have given anything to have had you there in the flesh and blood. After you passed away, we had these little brass pins made for us with your name on it. All the men in your family and all of your best friends received one. Whenever we celebrate a happy moment together, we wear the pins. Whether it's a wedding, the birth of a new child, or a small gathering, we wear the pins together as a way to make sure that you're still with us. Because you are always with us, Andy. And you always will be.

I miss you, Andy. I miss you terribly. The past few anniversaries of your death have been tough. But this year, I'm determined to not cry, mourn or bury myself in a bottle of scotch. I don't want to go to any memorial services. I don't want to hear about anyone else's losses. And I can't even look at the television. I just want to remember that terrible day by thinking about our friendship and what a truly amazing person you were. You were one of the best friends a man could ever have and although losing you was one of the worst things that's ever happened in my life, I'm grateful for the time that we did have together.

September 08, 2006

As I've mentioned before, I hate text messaging because every time I'm forced to use it, I feel like a Japanese schoolgirl. All I need is a Picachu or a Hello Kitty knapsack and the transformation will be complete.

Screw that! I'm 37 years old. You want to send me a message? Pick up the phone and call me.

However, I've got an eclectic (ok...weird) set of friends. And most of them continue to text me because they know it annoys the crap out of me. As I was deleting the messages from my phone today, I uncovered some gems from the past year. Here are some of my favorites...

.

"Hamptons in a blackout. Send booze."

"THC seems to have had an effect (e or a?)...empirical evidence confirmed by my wife (your behavior, not mine) She says you're 'cute'."

September 07, 2006

The lovely and talented Amalah was kind enough to e-mail me yesterday to let me know that someone on MySpace was blatantly plagiarizing some of my posts and passing them off as her own.

Apparently, the young plagiarist is an 18-year old girl from Las Vegas who not only cribbed some of my posts but also ripped off various writing from Amalah, Dooce, and Mr. Nice Guy. Because our young plagiarist is both single and childless, she altered our stories to pass them off as her own adventures in babysitting. The lives of our own children were co-opted as those of her unrelated minions.

How fucking pathetic is that?

Apparently, one of Amalah's 8 million readers discovered the young plagiarist, noticed the similarities immediately and duly informed Amalah of the offending trespass. Amalah then started doing some serious sleuthing of her own and discovered that she wasn't the only victim. Not only did she notify me but she also contacted MySpace to report the plagiarism.

How cool is that?

Personally, I think it's a little amusing that some white teenage chick from the desert would plagiarize the writing of a 37-year-old Korean dude living in New York City. It's almost comically pathetic. However, this does give me the perfect opportunity to rant about the moral turpitude and brain-numbing pile of shit known as MySpace.

I'll be the first to admit it. Maybe I'm just an old geezer who doesn't "get" the whole MySpace experience. Call me old-fashioned but every time I look at a MySpace page, I want to set my eyeballs on fire and smack someone on the side of the head with a dictionary.

Now, I'm happily married with a child and an actual career. So, yeah, maybe I don't "get" MySpace because I'm not looking to "hook up wit a hottie" or "get wildz and crazeeee!"

But even if I were young and single? I don't think I'd be cruising the pages of MySpace. In fact, there are so many things that I hate about MySpace, I don't even know where to begin. But I'll give it a try...

I hate how MySpace denigrates the meaning of the word "friend." For me, the concept of friendship is something special. As I've said before, a friend is someone who knows everything about you and likes you anyway, who knows you're suffering even when you're fooling everyone else, and who will always volunteer to drive you around in a white Bronco while 200 police cars follow you down the Interstate.

However, MySpace "friends" are cheap and meaningless. They're a dime a dozen. The whole point of MySpace is to accrue as many friends as possible. It doesn't matter if you know anything about that person at all. Just push a button and ask them to add you as a friend! Somehow, this will provide you with a sense of self-worth that you're sorely missing from the real world. After all, can you really be a loser if you have 3,247 friends?

Well, as most profiles on MySpace demonstrate, clearly you can!

"Look at this profile! Her name's ForBidDen BuTTerCup. She's from Miami and she's HOTTT! That's all I know about her 'cos she's hot and she's my FRIEND!"

Look, Fucko, I hate to break it to you but ForBidDen BuTTerCup is probably a dude. And he doesn't live in Miami. He lives at home with his mother and wants nothing more than for you to send him photos of yourself in your skivvies. See, there's a reason that some of these people are on the internet 20 hours/day and not hanging out with all the "kewl" friends that they allegedly have in real life. They're freaks, dude! Don't be busting out that webcam and taking pictures of yourself in your underoos just yet!

Another thing that bothers me about MySpace if the blatant pimping of cheap sexuality. How come every time I look at a MySpace profile, I feel like I'm looking at a future $1.00 stripper working the Bada Bing room off the Jersey Turnpike? Because just as MySpace cheapens the concept of friendship, it also cheapens the notion of sexuality.

Have you seen the women on MySpace? It's like the land of the sluts. Virtually every girl is either showing some serious cleavage, flashing their thongs, or auditioning for a part on the next Girls Gone Wild
video. Sadly, most of these girls appear to be either underage or in
college (where they can unleash their inner slut.) Now, personally, the thing that I find most bothersome is the sense that somehow, we (as a society) have reached a point where the true meaning of sexy has been completely lost.

You know what's sexy to me? A beautiful face with a great smile, a nice easy-going laugh, a curiously intelligent mind, a kind heart, and an effortless sense of style. You want to know what's NOT sexy? Surgically enhanced mammaries and seeing the outline of your vulva in your boy shorts. You're 17 years old. I don't want to see your catcher's mitt.

Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about you MySpace guys either. Let me tell you, I think it's hilarious that most of you pose without a shirt on. We get it, buddy. You're buff. You like to pump iron, take steroids, and flex your muscles in group photos with your buddies like you're doing a reenactment of Spartacus in your parents' garage. If you spent half as much time reading a book as you do working out, that future job in waste management wouldn't have to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Eventually, your he-man titties are going to sag and your balls are going to recede into your stomach. Where will you be then, Mr. MuscleHustLe22?

It shouldn't surprise anyone that there are sexual predators cruising around on MySpace. After all, virtually everyone on the site sets themselves up as sexual prey. And sure, MySpace didn't invent the phenomenon of pedophilia but, at the same time, they don't seem to be really doing anything to discourage the behavior either. Sure, they've made some well-publicized changes in age requirements. However, there's virtually no way to enforce those measures.

Speaking of age, the latest statistics show that 52% of MySpace users are 35 or older. However, out of that 52%, it's been proven that 90% are pedophiles and the other 10% are losers. (Ok, I made those last two statistics up. But seriously, if you're over 35, what the hell are you doing on MySpace?)

The only redeeming factor for MySpace is that it serves as a good publicity tool for established bands, aspiring musicians, stand-up comics, and writers. However, to those people, I urge you to read the fine print. According to the Proprietary Rights in Content on MySpace.com...

"By displaying or publishing ("posting") any Content, messages, text, files, images, photos, video, sounds, profiles, works of authorship, or any other materials (collectively, "Content") on or through the Services, you hereby grant to MySpace.com, a non-exclusive, fully-paid and royalty-free, worldwide license (with the right to sublicense through unlimited levels of sublicensees) to use, copy, modify, adapt, translate, publicly perform, publicly display, store, reproduce, transmit, and distribute such Content on and through the Services."

Bet most of you didn't know that, right?

Anyway, I could go on for days about how much I hate MySpace. However, I'll just let it go right now.

But Claudia? I come out to Vegas several times a year. Perhaps next time I'm in town, the two of us can have a drink at the Bellagio and you can regale me with all your stories about raising a two-year-old Korean-American daughter in Manhattan.